I pitch. I am accepted. I panic that I can’t do this and they couldn’t possibly know what they are getting when they have agreed to share my words with their readers.

Then I feel silly and stupid for my lack of confidence…because, though I have a lot to learn, I know I can write.

Those due dates from back in my school days are now out of a binder and my braille list of assignments I had in the eighth grade and into the organization I don’t quite have figured out yet for my freelance/writing work.

All over Facebook are people, those I went to school with and are now becoming mothers’ and posting their happy news.

The baby is due on this date or that.

I will likely never have this moment of joy, many moments of anticipation, with a baby growing inside of me.

So, I focus on the life I am living, the pain I do live with included, and the joy that my writing gives.

My due dates are for Catapult or SiriusXM or Hippocampus or Panorama. I am lucky.

The grass on an early morning: a robin hops across the ground and my feet are wet from the dew.